


Do monsters deserve to be remembered?

by captainhurricane



Series: Where There's a Will, There's a Wake [3]
Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Gen, Implied Drug Use, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Multi, memorial service
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-11
Updated: 2016-02-11
Packaged: 2018-05-19 17:52:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5975935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captainhurricane/pseuds/captainhurricane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The pack attends a memorial service.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Do monsters deserve to be remembered?

Most of the young inhabitants of Henrietta show up for the memorial service. Nobody knew Joseph but everyone knew Kavinsky, knew _of_ him and his parties, had gotten a taste of fireworks, easy drugs and easy sex from him. Of course, nobody knows why nobody in the Kavinsky-family shows up. The front row taken by a white-faced, empty-eyed trio. Swan has had his share of funerals and memorial services and this one he thinks is a joke. None of these people knew K like they did. None of these people care. It's no surprise Lynch or his grovelling friends never show up, after all, K had poked at the bee's nest a little too long. Swan has to swallow his jealousy. Lynch didn't understand, couldn't understand, that sharpfaced snake had his hands full with being better than anyone else. Still K had- had- Swan can't think about. Won't think about it. Lynch is not worth it.

 

The universe apparently thought otherwise because Lynch got to live and K had to die.

 

Swan hides a grimace-grin behind his hand, other squeezing Skov's chilly fingers. It's not like there is a body to bury, everything that was left of K were merely things, emotions, memories lingering in the quiet magic of Henrietta-nights.

 

Skov leans his head on Swan's shoulder and stares, unseeing. He spends most of his days like that: his face a void, his skin colder than a corpse. When he speaks, it's with the tone of a graveyard.

 

”I heard Kavinsky's mom overdosed again last night.”

”No way!”

”Yes way. Like it's a surprise. That entirely family was such a -”

The trio of girls sitting right behind the dreamer's favourite boys slow down, their conversation quieting. Jiang has turned, brows furrowed. Swan has turned, face a storm. The constant hangover doesn't help, the itch in his mouth for more, to do more. He craves to be in the road where Kavinsky's presence can be felt, where he only has to turn his head to see that smirk and remember all the things K left them.

 

”Have some fucking respect,” Swan growls. Jiang clicks his tongue. He looks away, already uninterested because the girls go quiet, sullen. Jiang looks around, spots a few raven-logos and feels his insides tighten. He, well, all of them could have been wearing those. They could have been rich, priviledged raven boys. K gave that all up when his life tightened itself around him, when he realized dancing on knife's edge was better than anything living as a mere raven boy could have been.

 

Fuck flying when you could be everything and everywhere. When the world was yours.

 

”Fucking junkies,” is whispered around them and Swan shakes. Skov grabs his arm and squeezes.

”There's not even a body to bury,” Jiang says.

”This is such a joke,” Swan says. Kavinsky's glasses were left on the Mitsubishi's dashboard, gathering dust and ash. A better memorial than any service.

 

K was a lot of their firsts. Nobody would ever understand. Nobody would ever ever know.

 

Swan stares at the school appointed priest with anger and thinks of slow blowjobs in backseats, about K shotgunning with him and laughingly asking if Swan wanted to devour him. K had been his first blowjob.

 

Skov's gaze focuses and unfocuses, his fingers brushing Swan's in a sleepy, dreamy haze. He tends to forget these days what's going on and what's happened. He thinks of his first meeting with K. Smoke had changed into a kiss, the kiss had changed into bruises and K whispering filth into his ears. K had been his first kiss.

 

Jiang stares at his hands, folding into fists. Maybe it's K's fault he's like this, that they're all like this but it had been their choice to accept that hand, to live in the black world between dreams and awakening. K had been his first friend, his first car crash, his first crush, his beginning and his end.

 

Prokopenko dreams and sleeps away the days, the clock ticking in an endless cycle. Prokopenko dreams and is blinded by the headlights, deafened by the sound of the bass. _Hop in, shitface._ The leather seat under his ass is freezing cold. He knows he's sitting in a car. He knows he's laying in a white bed, still sleeping.

 

Do you hear? He asks Kavinsky. This Kavinsky, ethereal and out there, grinning like the devil himself. This Kavinsky with nothing behind his glasses.

In here, I hear it all.

 

All boys dream, all boys know things they shouldn't know. But these boys shared a world and now that world is a muddled memory, dead in the middle of a mother's overdose and a lot of _what the hell, I didn't know he was dead- oh, he deserved to die, he was a piece of shit- he threw the best parties though-_

The memorial service ends and the front row is empty. Jiang parts ways, heading elsewhere. Skov holds Swan in the backseat of his RX-7. Neither understands why they hear the rustle of trees.

 


End file.
